Though I have no statistics to hand I presume that Shakespeare’s lyrics have
been set to music by more composers than those of any other poet. In 1985
Hyperion, enterprising from its earliest days, issued a record masterminded
by Graham Johnson and called “Shakespeare’s Kingdom”. The singer was Sarah
Walker and the composers were of well-varied nationalities, including a few
of Shakespeare’s compatriots. One or two of the songs on that album turn up
again on the disc under review. In 1992 Hyperion and Graham Johnson returned
to the subject with “Songs to Shakespeare”. This time the singer was Anthony
Rolfe Johnson, the composers were all British and the ordering was chronological.
Again, a few of the same songs – but only a few – appear in this new recital.

The Hyperion programmes were primarily aimed at a British audience, though
one hopes they travelled further afield. The present CD had a different agenda.
The Rheingau Musik Festival was planning a series called “On the Wings of
Song Through Europe”. Even just twenty years ago they would probably have
ignored Great Britain on the assumption that no songs had ever been written
there. Instead they invited Michelle Breedt to provide an English recital.
She remarks in her note that she “was faced with quite a daunting task” since
“on the continent” the notion of English art song “is quite a rarity”. Intelligently,
she devoted the first half of the programme to Shakespeare settings since
this provided her audience with the reference-point of an author known to
them. The second half is simply a swatch of favourite – in the UK – English
songs.

Michelle Breedt was born in South Africa and began her voice studies there.
Next came a spell at London’s Guildhall, where she presumably encountered
a few of the songs in the second part of this programme. English is therefore
one of her mother tongues. However, her career has basically taken place in
Germany and in opera, though without neglecting lieder. My first encounter
with her was “Dvorák und seine Zeit”, a programme masterminded by Thomas Hampson
for the 2004 Salzburg Festival and issued by Orfeo (C 656 0521). Breedt’s
principal contribution was Dvorák’s “Love Songs” op.83 sung in English. This
curious decision was made by Hampson who seemingly thought, on the basis of
an edition with English words, that these songs were actually written in that
language. In reality, and in spite of the high opus number, they were culled
from Dvorák’s very early cycle “Cypresses” and were written in Czech. I dredge
this up again – I discussed it when reviewing the set – because Breedt seems
to have learnt from the episode a tendency to equate musicology with spending
half-an-hour in a music store. In speaking of a “daunting task” she conjures
up visions of hours spent in libraries grubbing through long-out-of-print
scores. In actual fact she has not, so far as I can see, “discovered” anything
that isn’t currently in print. Eric Coates in serious vein, Julius Harrison
and Stuart Findlay sound mouth-wateringly rare but in fact an anthology of
Shakespeare settings currently available from Boosey & Hawkes contains
these and many other songs in the programme. But I don’t want to labour the
point since the programme was basically aimed at a public with zero knowledge
of the repertoire. And in any case, the availability of those particular songs
doesn’t seem to have stimulated anyone to record them ere now. Breedt also
writes enthusiastically and often perceptively about a number of the songs.
Somewhat sloppily, though, she twice refers to Findlay as “Finley”.

A similar mix of inspiration and approximation seems to have gone into the
preparation of the performances themselves. She rightly remarks that “it was
of the utmost importance to me to stick as closely as possible to the dynamic
markings cited by each and every composer in this selection”. But it’s worth
getting the notes right too. On the last page of Harrison’s “I know a bank”,
the two semi-quavers to the word “musk” are sung a tone lower than written.
At the beginning of the last line but one of Parry’s “Willow, willow, willow”,
she shifts the descent of the vocal line, before the pause, to the beginning
of the following bar. Sung and played as written a curious passing dissonance
is created, for which reason Breedt maybe took it upon herself to correct
the poor nut, but I happen to think Parry knew what he was doing. In Head’s
“The homecoming of the sheep”, in the line “merry boys with shouldered crooks”,
and again when the same phrase is sung to “cormorants and seagulls call”,
she sings a B not a C sharp as written. In Gurney’s “Sleep”, at the words
“delight awhile” she sings a B flat not an A flat. On the next page the word
“idle” is divided into four semiquavers plus two instead of five plus one
as written. It may make little difference but Janet Baker (Saga XID 5213;
also Regis)
saw no reason to alter the composer’s intentions – as well as correctly singing
A flat on the previous page. In Parry’s “When we two parted”, at the phrase
“share in its shame”, the voice goes down on “in” instead of “its”. At the
end of this song there is a minim rest, making quite a lengthy pause given
the slow tempo. Breedt and her pianist have better things to do than sit looking
at each other all that time so they cut the rest out. Back in the 70s when
Robert Tear and Philip Ledger set this song down life went at a slower pace
and there was time for things like a minim rest. In Elgar’s “Pleading” the
dotted crotchet under “dull regret” gets about half its value. And this in
spite of a marked “rit.”, meaning that the note might, if anything, have been
profitably lengthened.

If this list seems long, I should add that I had available scores to exactly
half the songs on the disc, so according to the law of averages a full list
might be longer. But let us charitably apply the presumption of innocence
and suppose this not to be so. On a slightly different tack, in “The Faithless
Shepherdess”, the internal rhymes of “Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love
…. soon lost for new love” surely prove that the anonymous poet expect “adieu”
to be pronounced “a dew” rather than in the French manner, as Breedt does.

Which brings us to pronunciation. I was somewhat disconcerted at first by
Breedt’s very matronly delivery. “Who is Sealvyah?” she asks many times, and
later on there is “Titanyah”. Rs are sumptuously rolled. On the contrary,
while Hs are well present in vital words they are often skimped in words like
“him” and “her”. The effect is almost as if she is guying an upper-crust grand
society dame of the 1930s. It’s true that most of these songs were originally
heard in drawing-rooms where people talked, even sang, like that, but it sounds
parodistic if repeated today. However, it all adds up to a personality. After
the initial perplexity I found myself tuning to Breedt’s wavelength and became
quite fond of her as the disc went on.

It is, however, a manner of delivery that can lead to exaggeration. Sometimes
she digs into a word in a way that its context scarcely justifies. Towards
the end of “The homecoming of the sheep”, at the line “Then sleep wraps every
bell up tight” she inflects “wraps” as though introducing a cutthroat, even
conspiratorial element into the proceedings. But perhaps the time has come
for a few comparisons. Some of these songs are rare, but several have time-hallowed
favourites demanding to be taken off the shelf. First Janet Baker and Gerald
Moore in Parry’s “O mistress mine”. In the introduction Nina Schumann gives
us a bumpy ride compared with Gerald Moore. Janet Baker then sings her first
lines with a sense of unforced enjoyment. The result is that, when she places
a word slightly, which she does for the first time with “low” at the end of
the third line, the effect is memorable. Breedt, by pointing practically everything,
in the end points nothing. So it is with Head’s “A Piper”, included by Janet
Baker on the early Saga disc mentioned above. This time the pianist is Martin
Isepp. Baker paints the scene deliciously, the words tripping from her mouth.
Everything depends on colours. She does not slow down for emphasis, which
Breedt does all too often. This makes the song plain heavy. And the trouble
is, the song itself is rather flimsy, but we don’t notice this when Janet
Baker sings it. In Gurney’s “Sleep” line is fundamental. Baker is clear with
the words but never loses the line through emphasizing details along the way.

However, there are strong compensations. It may seem unsporting of me to say
this only now, but Breedt’s voice is a splendid instrument, rich, creamy and
secure in the upper register, firm in the lower one, evenly controlled with
a wide dynamic range. She can spin a pianissimo, as in “Silver”, where she
makes the unexpected decision to sing the high voice version, and brings it
off beautifully. In spite of the small misreading I encored “I know a bank”
immediately because it was such a lovely song, sensitively handled. And not
all the comparisons go against her. Robert Tear’s version of “When we two
parted” has the advantage of Philip Ledger’s more insightful playing of the
piano prelude – Nina Schumann is more conventionally passionate. But Breedt
finds more in the song than Tear’s well-schooled, gentlemanly reading reveals.
It was a pleasure to listen again to John Shirley-Quirk’s “Silent Noon”, a
favourite of my schooldays (Saga XID 5211 – see article),
but I’m not sure that I don’t find Breedt more vivid now. And, while I thought
Breedt occasionally robbed “Love’s Philosophy” of its excitement with some
overemphasis, turning to white-toned, pretty-piping Jennifer Vyvyan’s inexpressive
gallopade was to remind myself that there were ways of singing these songs
that have hopefully been banished forever. I hope the Rheingau audience were
left wanting more and that Breedt might investigate the repertoire further.
She is not yet quite a natural in this repertoire but she may yet become so.
If she hasn’t heard Janet Baker’s not very numerous forays into this repertoire
I hope she will seek them out. Nina Schumann sounds remarkably at home in
the piano parts.

As well as Breedt’s introductory note, there is an essay on British song in
general by Ruth Seiberts. Some of her comments will sound strange to British
ears. We may get tired of the automatic pairing of Parry and Stanford in all
history books, but Seiberts has a solution for this: “Both Parry and Elgar
introduced a new direction to English music, away from Victorian strictness
and towards a freer engagement with musical material”. We may also tire of
the penny-in-the-slot emphasis on Stanford as a teacher rather than as a composer.
Seiberts has an answer to that one, too: “A true English musical renaissance
had been prompted by Parry and Elgar. This is especially apparent with Parry,
who was a lecturer at the Royal College of Music. By virtue of this position,
he attracted talented students, many of whom later went on to become composers
themselves”. She then goes on to mention that Vaughan Williams “studied
under Parry” [he studied for a while with Parry before going on
to Stanford, Parry was Principal of the RCM but didn’t generally teach
composition. Dibble's biography of Parry mentions only two composition students:
Vaughan Williams and - privately - Tovey] and “was also keen to study
with Elgar, but was not accepted”. English musical history as she is wrote
in Germany!

But all things considered, a warm welcome to the best – and particularly the
least recorded – things here.

Christopher Howell
Breedt’s voice is a splendid instrument. She is not yet quite a natural in
this repertoire but she may yet become so.